Day 43

What a shitty day. At rehab, we spent the whole time providing encouragement to a woman who had relapsed over the weekend, which was a positive thing. I didn’t contribute much because I spent the entire session angry at the world and thinking how I don’t give a fuck if I relapse.

It’s happening again. I’m becoming an empty, hollow shell. I’m looking around for some meaning in my life and I’m finding nothing. I’ve been doing a good job about eating every day and, while I’ve stopped losing weight, I haven’t really put anything on to speak of. I don’t see much point in continuing to eat though.

I see my psychiatrist tomorrow morning. I’ll tell him all this. I don’t really care what his response is. I just want to be left alone while I slowly starve. I’m tempted to stop taking all my meds, call my dealer, and get back on oxycodone. Sadly, the only thing that’s holding me back is the cost.

I’m a fucking emotional basket case. My moods feel like they change every fifteen minutes, each one more distressing than the last. I outed myself at rehab last night with respect to my BPD. I don’t know how familiar the others are with respect to that disorder. I’ve got a pretty good sense that I’m about to really let my crazy flag fly (I say that as if I have some control over it). I don’t care if they think I’m nuts (I mean, I am). I just don’t want to inadvertently hurt anyone.

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